


kisses unclean like the words you say

by Omorika (Zercalo)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Derek and Scott are Brothers, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, alcohol use, living under the same roof, pseudo-incest?, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Omorika
Summary: There are less torturous things than to live under the same roof with Derek Hale (and his entire family) - it's just that Stiles can't think of any right now.





	kisses unclean like the words you say

**Author's Note:**

> Also a repost from my other account - no worries, it was just these two stories.

The summer has just started when Talia Hale moves back into the empty house her parents have left behind. She's just gone through a messy divorce. Her oldest child, Laura, has barely avoided a criminal record after a stunt that got her expelled from college, and Beacon Hills, surrounded by an age-old forest at the edge of nothing at all, is reportedly a good place for her youngest child, Scott, to manage his asthma better.

Stiles would not usually be privy to such details of a life of a woman he's never met, but his dad gets drunk that Friday. Now drunk, that isn't exactly a new look on him – but that night will haunt Stiles forever. The bottle breaks, already empty, and he cuts his finger when while cleaning up. Dad's eyes shine with an unfamiliar pain when he tells him all about Talia Hale and all about how he met Stiles' mother.

The story is a little disturbing, to be honest. And now every time Stiles sees a tiny scar on his finger where he cut himself, he thinks about it.

Stiles meets Talia five months later or so, when his father finally decides to stop hiding from Stiles that he's started dating again. She's not unpleasant. A lot less motherly than Stiles has pegged a women with three children to be, a little too sharp, maybe, a little too serious - but not unpleasant.

Dad's been smiling a lot more recently, and quite frankly, Talia Hale is only marked as acceptable in Stiles' books because she's managed to accomplish that. Being not unpleasant is just a bonus.

Not long after that, dad and Talia decide it's time their families meet. Stiles knows all three of her children by sight – Laura is not exactly inconspicuous around the small town of Beacon Hills in her shiny black car and even shinier black boots. She's working at the convenience store/gas station out by the hallway. Derek is beloved at the high school – a Jackson type, wicked good at sports yet decent enough student, and teachers adore him for his well-roundedness. Scott is a little younger than Stiles, still fifteen, though they share a few classes. He's the most awkward one of the Hales, crooked-jawed, full of smiles and adorableness that one usually only sees in mongrel puppies.

Talia is learning the landscape of the Stilinski kitchen – Stiles' domain, not dad's, though dad is the one with her in there now, pretending he knows where the stirring spoons are – when Scott arrives. He looks baffled and putout with the whole thing when Stiles shows him the way into the living room and offers him a glass of water.

They chat – a little awkwardly, their tastes don't really overlap that much - until there's a peal of Talia's laughter coming from the kitchen. Stiles is a little proud of dad for managing to drag a sound like that from the usually so strict-looking Talia. Scott frowns deeply.

“I didn't know she was dating... uh, your father.”

It's painfully obvious that he doesn't care if it's Stiles father or Santa Claus himself, she shouldn't be dating, period. Stiles raises an amused eyebrow. “What did you think she was doing every other Saturday night when she came over here with an overnight bag?”

“I don't know! Going to – to the – the spa!”

So he wasn't thinking about it at all. Mom is out for the night, hooray. Who cares where she's going.

Though... Maybe this is how Stiles would be, too, if his mom didn't die. But she did, so he keeps a careful track of his dad's whereabouts. It's, well, it's maybe slightly obsessive.

Stiles sighs, “Well, I have come across some traces of purple, lavender scented wax drips in the main bathroom – which I stopped using completely after that, by the way. So I guess she maybe was pretending it's a spa?”

Scott doesn't look very comforted by that, and Stiles' mind is now back to conjuring some very disturbing images involving massages and oils and his dad, so it's a relief when a car rumbles to a stop in front of the house.

Stiles goes to open the door. Laura's glancing over her shoulder with a frown on the other side of it, like maybe their porch isn't quite to her standards. She's wearing a tight, short leather jacket over her horrid pink uniform; fresh from her shift, if her half-lid eyes smeared with stale makeup are anything to draw conclusions from.

“Well,” she says, eying him up and down. “You're a little scrawny, aren't you?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean, a little? When exactly will I be scrawny enough, huh?”

Laura cocks her head with a frown. “And a little mouthy, too.”

“Hi, Laura,” Stiles waves her inside. “Bathroom is the second door on the right, upstairs.”

“Uh, okay?”

Stiles waves at her face – which aside from the signs of tiredness is actually – and unsurprisingly - quite pretty, “You've a little something, just...”

She disappoints him greatly by not reaching up instantly to wipe the spot on her face he's indicated, but she does go up the stairs. Stiles watches her with a smirk – she shouldn't have commented on his thinness. It's a sore point for him. He's sixteen, he eats healthily and is physically quite active, he shouldn't look like he's a rent boy, turning the point in his career where he's willing to give out blow jobs for bowls of soup. Yet, here he is, inspiring relative strangers to make random comments about it.

Stiles has been closing the door, but they bounce off unexpectedly, catch his foot and send him flying backwards. He grabs around blindly, manages to steady himself. With a sigh of relief, he straightens and realizes... Yeah, no wonder he hasn't ended up on the floor. He's had help staying upward – Derek Hale has grabbed him by the arm and a hip. While Stiles has fistfuls of his shirt clutched tightly.

Wow. Great first impression. And on the only Hale Stiles has cared to leave an impression, too.

Derek is not as tall as he looks from afar. He is just as pretty, through, even with that terrible scowl on his face.

“Where, um. Where'd you come from?” Stiles manages finally.

Derek's hands let go of him instantly, like he can smell the cocktail of hormones Stiles' body is mixing already. Stiles can still feel the imprints of their warmth. Derek says, voice low but soft, “Laura gave me a ride.”

Huh. Stiles hasn't seen him at all behind her. He blinks at Derek, feeling weirdly out of his depth. Derek's eyebrows rise and he looks pointedly at Stiles' hands, still clasped in his shirt.

“Oh, I'm. I'm removing my hands now.”

He says that, but it takes a few more seconds before he manages to convince his hands to relax. Derek's shirt is all wrinkled in their wake, so Stiles tries to smoothen it a little. It's, wow. Derek's chest is like made from granite and steel – and yep, that's a nipple. Stiles wants to chunk his weirdness off on being envious of Derek's physical attributes, just so this evening will run smoother, except his mouth is parchment-dry and he can't make himself stop straightening Derek's shirt.

Derek huffs his annoyance, grabs both Stiles' wrists and removes the misbehaving hands himself.

Stiles breathes out in relief and checks for any other lurkers before closing the door this time – he wouldn't put it past Talia to have another kid. Where there's three, there's four, right? But no, that's it.

Derek finds his way to the living room on his own, and Stiles follows him in there. Dad and Talia are sitting on the couch, Scott is sulking in the armchair and Laura is looking blearily on them all.

“Come on, now,” Stiles says as soon as Derek takes a seat on the sofa, shrugging off his jacket. “Hit us.”

“Stiles,” Dad says, even as the tension cackles across the room.

“Tell us what?” Scott demands.

“Come on. Dad. Laura here thinks I need to lose some weight,” Laura treats his with a very rude, very unladylike hand gesture for that, “and what better way than to kill my appetite completely before the dinner even starts? Just rip off the band aid. You're getting married, right?”

Scott is literally jumping to his feet in horror, like a cartoon character in distress, “What?"

Derek is scowling some more, otherwise unmoved, and Laura looks somewhat more awake.

“No,” dad says firmly. “Why would you say that?”

“Um, because you've been dragging in empty boxes for days now? We haven't moved much, sure, but I still know what moving looks like, dad.”

Dad exchanges a look with Talia. She clears her throat, says, “We're not getting married. You are right, though. About the moving.”

“So you're moving in together,” Derek snaps. “Just like that? We didn't even know who you were dating until this morning!”

“Seriously?” Stiles says. Scott is a little naïve, so sure, he'll buy the guy didn't know that. But Derek and Laura? “You didn't know my dad's been spending every other Friday night at your place for months now? How?”

Talia smirks. “They go out on Friday nights. And then they break their curfew, come back late sneaking in straight to their rooms. There'll be none of that any longer, of course.”

Stiles is grudgingly impressed. Scott whimpers.

“We won't sell the house, Stiles,” dad says gently. “We'll rent it out, if we can, but this is only an experiment. To see if we can fit in together. It's for financial reasons, as well – we believe it will do some good to us all.”

Stiles swallows, throat tight. Somehow, he imagined Talia would be moving in with them. But this makes more sense. There are the boxes, which wouldn't be in the house if not for their stuff needing to be moved from here. There's also the fact their house is too small. There are only three bedrooms.

And financially, yeah. Talia's husband has shown little mercy for his wife once all the children decided to go with her, with his fancy expensive lawyers and unyielding pride. Dad was struggling for so long to pay off all the hospital bills that were all that was left of mom, they're still feeling the consequences. It makes sense.

He looks around the living room, where Scott looks seriously upset, Laura is sinking back to her half-asleep state, Derek is frowning, Talia and dad are whispering together. Even now, worried about their reactions and if he's making the right decisions, the man is obviously on the verge of smiling, which is... It's a gift, to Stiles from Talia, it feels like. Stiles remembers the story of how his mom and dad first bonded over their mutual crush on Talia Hale back in the day. Knowing his mom, she's giving standing ovations to dad from behind the veil right now.

Scott is easy and kind, Stiles can deal with him, no problem. Laura is a bit of an ass, but she's working and will be often enough out of the house. Derek - well, Derek and his pretty eyes and chest made of steel might be a little bit of a problem – but what better solution than an extreme overexposure to the source of it?

All in all... “Okay. Okay, fine. When are we moving in?”

*

Stiles takes the first load of his things to Talia's house the next day. Dad's at work, but it's Saturday. He doesn't have much else to do and it'll convince dad that he's serious and willing to go along with all this madness. It's a decent sized house at the edge of the preserve. Laura is working, apparently, but Talia is home. So are Derek and Scott, who don't look much happier than they've been chewing unenthusiastically on their food the last night.

Talia hugs him shortly – and it's bit weird, coming from her, but Stiles thinks she's had a hard time with her kids about this and is just grateful someone is cooperating.

“Since you're the one who has to make all these changes, I'm having Scott room with Derek so you can have a room to yourself.”

Stiles nods as he takes in the expressions of his brand new maybe-almost-stepbrothers. Scott looks vaguely displeased. Derek is downright furious, glaring down at his hands.

And the thing is, Stiles is getting sort of invested in seeing this experiment succeed, for his dad's sake. So he offers, “Or I could just room with Scott. I don't mind sharing.”

He isn't sure whether he minds sharing or not, but he'll try not to.

Talia looks back at her sons. Scott looks less displeased – for whatever reason, he'll have to share a room either way. And Derek's got his curious, guarded eyes on Stiles.

“Are you sure?” Talia asks.

“Yeah.”

“You could take a look at their rooms – maybe you'd prefer to share with Derek?”

“Um, no?” The very thought is like a flash forward to a thousand humiliations, big and small. “I really don't care about what the room's like, I, um. I li – I know Scott better?”

Scott grins at him from across the room. Derek... Yeah, that's a smirk he's hiding.

Talia nods seriously, though. “Okay, then. You can share with Scott – but if it's because of that nasty scowl of Derek's, you should know that's just for show. He's a kitten inside.”

Stiles rubs his neck awkwardly, because she's apparently expecting him to have a comment to that. “I'm more of a dog person?”

Talia snorts. “Me, too. Maybe we can adopt one, later on. Do you want to see the kitchen?”

She leads him through a large dining room into the kitchen. It's bigger than the one back home, modern – but it gives the impression it's not well-used. The stove shows him his reflexion when he bends over it to inspect it. They are still new in town, and Stiles knows Talia is often very busy. He walks around the huge, handy kitchen isle/breakfast table and opens the refrigerator. He closes it back almost immediately.

“Okay, that's not gonna work.”

Scott and Derek have both followed them. Scott has taken on of the stools, Derek is standing there with a hip against the isle. They're exchanging looks that probably mean a lot in their top secret siblings language, and Talia looks like Stiles has started speaking Chinese suddenly. That's too much being lost in translation in a single kitchen, Stiles thinks. They have a lot of work in front of them.

“The red meat. The butter. The canned soup,” Stiles rubs his face, frustrated. “There's nothing fresh in there, much less green, is there?”

“You want us to stop eating meat?” Derek demands, straightening from the isle.

“I don't care what you eat. My father isn't allowed red meat, though, so you can't eat it where he has to watch and could succumb to temptation, okay?”

Talia repeats carefully, “He isn't allowed?”

“Well, he has high pressure, bad cholesterol and family history of heart illness. So, yeah, he's not.”

“Come here,” Talia says. There's a chore list attached to the refrigerator. She takes out a pen and writes Stiles on the blank edge of the paper. She draws a line under his name and writes groceries as his task. “Just keep to the budget we decide on, and choose a day.”

“Monday,” Stiles says. “Why?”

“We'll each get a day in the week to cook dinner, and wing it on Sundays. Laura is vacuuming and scrubbing floors this week, Derek is doing laundry and Scott is washing dishes. Sounds fair?”

“And I'm buying groceries? Are you trying to ease me into your dictatorship, Mrs. Hale?”

“Well, don't forget you're planning and buying trice as much now – personally, I find it very stressful. And good luck in making anyone eat salad in this house. Also, it's Talia, if you don't mind.”

Stiles snorts. “You underestimate me.” Because he's got tricks, okay. Some of them he can't use on his dad - for heart reasons, because they involve bacon - but he can and will use them on the Hales.

Talia makes a  _ we'll see _ face at him, but only says, “Do you want to see the rest of the house? Boys.”

Scott and Derek take it from there, help Stiles with his bags, as Talia goes back to some papers she's got spread over the table in the dining room. Well, Scott takes over, while Derek follows them silently. Scott points out to the back exit, the basement, the back porch, the garage. Then they go upstairs.

The master bedroom is on the right from the stairs – and it has its own bathroom, a walk-in closet and a large balcony that overlooks the preserve. It's quiet and nice, very clean and orderly and – dad must love it here. His sleep is light and every car on the street wakes him up.

Laura's room is on the other side of the short hallway, and she's got a mini bathroom of her own. Thank God. Stiles watches television and knows what girls are like in bathrooms – and he tells all these stuff running through his head to Scott, who listens and nods in all the wrong places.

“This is Derek's room,” Scott says after they turn the corner, but Derek twists between them to open the door himself. Stiles follows inside, uninvited but curious, even as Scott continues straight ahead with Stiles' things. It's startlingly normal, with just as much sports equipment as he's been expecting - and more books. While he's looking around, Derek's got into his bed. He's stretched out on top of the covers, reaching up for a comic he's been keeping on the night stand.

Mind on the plan to get rid of this unwelcome complication of a feeling by overexposure, Stiles very deliberately does not look away. Jesus. All the Hales are attractive, but Derek is Stiles' type of attractive – dangerous looking (apparently his mom calling him a kitten doesn't change anything), with his powerful build and the menacing scowl. He stares at Derek's legs, every muscle obvious in the snug jeans he's wearing. His shirt has moved up and there's a patch of skin there, looking smooth and warm and lickable.

“What?” Derek snaps, and Stiles blinks, looks up into his eyes. Which are murderous. “What are you still doing in my room?”

Stiles thinks he knows very well, because he yanks his shirt down, turns his shoulders forward, like he's trying to put a shield between them. If it's really meant to hide him, he's not doing a good job if it.

Slowly, Stiles smiles his most innocent looking smile. “Just wondering... What're you reading?”

Derek puts his feet on the floor, like he's going to get up, but he remains sitting there with his hands wrapped around the edge of the mattress and looking up at Stiles. “God, you're weird.”

“I'm an acquired taste, Derek,” Stiles informs him easily - this is hardly his first time being called weird. “I am very, very likable - just give it time.”

Then Stiles gets exactly why Derek has yanked his shirt down that way earlier – the urge to cover yourself when someone is intensely eying every part of your body like that is overwhelming. Derek lingers on his hands, on his shoulders, his eyes slide up Stiles' neck and... yeah, of course. Stops on his mouth.

Stiles is half hard already in his pants, just from that, face burning. But he doesn't move.

“Well,” Derek allows, his voice raspier. “Possibly. If you think you can shut up for five minutes.”

“You can't think of a way to shut me up?” Stiles says quietly, mouth upturn on one side in mock disappointment. “Now that's weird. Even those sleazebags out at the rest stop can think of a few – and aren't too shy to shout them out after me.”

Derek jumps up like the words bit him, is standing right in front of Stiles in less than a second. “That's what you do in your free time? Get on your knees for strangers out on the highway?”

He sounds – God, he sounds like the thought of it hurts him somehow. And Stiles wouldn't be Stiles if he wasn't feeling compelled to push and see how far that empathy stretches. So he licks his lips, and he whispers back, admits to the wicked, stupid thought he's had once or twice, “Sometimes – sometimes I think maybe I should. I should go and get down for anyone, tell 'em it's free of they get me off, too.”

Because being a virgin is so exhausting at sixteen. Because at least they look at him like he's something desirable. Because maybe he's broken somehow, but it sounds sort of exciting.

Derek looks stricken, though. He opens his mouth, and Stiles braces for a 'don't'. What comes out is a low, rumbling, “For anyone?”

“Anyone who'd want me.”

Derek takes in a long, harsh breath through his teeth. Stiles turns from him with eyes already shut, unwilling to see the look he's put on his face. It's probably disgust.

Why the hell has he even said those things? They're not true – okay, he sometimes thinks about it, it's a dirty fantasy that loses all the appeal as soon as he gets off, but he's never seriously considered it. Not to mention, his dad would just die. So why say that to Derek? Aside from a few words they have exchanged last night and today, this is their first conversation. The first one they had alone in one room, definitely.

He goes through a door that doesn't even lead back to the hallway, it leads into a bathroom. It's one of those bathrooms that has two entrances and Stiles has a sneaky suspicion that – yep, that's Scott's room on the other side. Scott and Stiles are sharing a bathroom with Derek.

Boy. This is gonna be so fun.

Scott is clearing out his desk, surrounded by Stiles' still full bags. He says, “We'll have to move some things to make your bed fit – is it okay on this side?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, gets down to help him with a pile of notebooks.

“Thanks for volunteering to share a room with me,” Scott whispers some time later. “Derek has friends and girlfriends and whatnot over all the time, I'd never get to spend any time in my own room.”

Stiles doesn't want to talk about Derek's girlfriends and whatnots, and he asks instead, “Don't you have a girlfriend, though? The brunette you always hang around?”

Scott gets so red, it's like Stiles when he spends a day on the beach. “Allison isn't my girlfriend.”

“Yet. Right?”

“Right. I mean, I want to ask her out. It's, just...”

“The itsy-bitsy little thing of not knowing if she'll say yes?”

“I mean, what if she says no and then it's awkward and we can't be friends any longer because of it, either?”

Whoa, talk about smitten. Stiles claps him on the shoulder, smiles. “We'll figure something out.”

So they settle into making space for Stiles, work together with ease. Scott tells him all about how Allison lent him a pen when he first started school here, about how they've spent time together in school and outside of it, but only with other friends. He's all admiration and goofy smiles and Stiles thinks he can use someone like this in his life – someone genuinely kind and caring.

*

So Stiles and his dad move into the Hale house. It's not bad, mostly. Scott is really great. They talk a lot, sometimes deep into the night, joke and argue about little things. It's exactly how Stiles imagined having a brother would be. But all similarity to being a large family begins and stops with Scott. Talia is treating Stiles with a distracted consideration. She seems to think that just because he has excellent grades, he is to be trusted unconditionally. Well, Stiles won't the one to tell her she's badly mistaking – there's time. She'll learn.

Laura is, as predicted, busy with her job and the life she's building anew in Beacon Hills. There's a stiffness between her and her mom, probably the whatever she's done to get kicked out of college and arrested. No one's talking about it, but Laura is working harder and she's more serious than she should be for someone her age – trying to make up for whatever she's done. She's only twenty. Stiles barely has any contact with her, though when they do see each other, it's teasing and friendly.

Derek – well, he's not too obvious about it, but there's no mistaking it. He avoids spending time with Stiles, even in the company of others. He'll sit as far as he can, get out as soon as possible and he will not hesitate a second to run out without shame or even an excuse if they happen in the same room without anyone else there.

And that's just –  _ nope _ .

Wednesday is Derek's day to make dinner. Stiles comes home from a study/gossip session with Heather to a less than promising smell coming from the kitchen. Laura's watching a rerun of some sitcom on the tv in the living room with an indifference of someone who has never even attempted to cook, so Stiles takes it upon himself to make sure they don't burn down with the house.

Derek is glaring down the smoke that's rising from the pot. The pot that's still on the stove, like leaving the onions there on the heat will somehow render them less burnt.

“Should I run and fetch a fire distinguisher, or you mean to put it out with the power of your scowl?” Derek turns his glare on Stiles, who has no choice but roll his eyes. “Put it off the heat, Derek, seriously. No one's going to eat that.”

Derek grabs the pot and throws it into the sink with a loud clutter. Pieces of charred onions fly everywhere. “I forgot to buy jarred sauce.”

“I'm not sure that explains a flaunt of bravery of this magnitude, though. What happened to good old sandwiches?”

Stiles tiptoes closer as Derek cleans the mess he's made in the sink. “I found some tomato puree in the back. This made it sound easy.”

He gestures at his phone, sitting there on the kitchen isle, and Stiles takes it as a permission to pick it up. Yeah, that recipe is pretty easy, and while he's there, Stiles quickly goes through Derek's most recent activities – messages (gross, floozie, no one needs to know that much about your panties), phone calls (Derek isn't much of a talker, these are all under two minutes) and photos (is that... a sunset? yep, that's a photo of a sunset, damn, that's disappointing).

Derek notices what he's doing and grabs at the phone with wet hands. “What are you doing?”

Stiles keeps his hold on it firmly long enough to click out to the main menu, then lets it go.

“Looking at the recipe. It's a piece of cake, come on, start over.”

Derek eyes him skeptically. “I'll just make sandwiches.”

“You already opened the can,” Stiles points out. “Come on, peel some onions, there's garlic in the basket under the sink.”

After a few long seconds of looking at the bag of onions like they'll help him make a decision, Derek glances sideways at Stiles. “You'll stay with me?”

Like a horde of zombies could chase him out. Stiles grins. “Sure. But I won't cook in your place, okay, I'll just,” he leans pointedly against the isle, “stand here and tell you what I want you to do.”

“That sounds like fun,” Derek mutters, but reaches for the onions. It takes him forever to cut them up.

“Lower the heat or you'll just burn them again,” Stiles tells him as he pours cooking oil into the pot with the onions. And then, after the new smells start spreading around them, “You realize your wrist can be used for things that aren't angling a basketball, right?”

Derek looks up, slowly. “Like what?” he asks dryly.

“Like reaching inconveniently located spots - or, you know,” Stiles points at the pot, “Stirring onions?”

Derek is staring at him for a few more seconds before he finally blinks and turns to his cooking. “Garlic?”

“I like to put it after tomato, but you can add it in now if you want. Just don't let the onions burn while you take your time to slice it.”

Derek nods seriously, like it's an invaluable advice he's been given here and not common sense. He looks so out of place here in the kitchen, somehow hunched – like he has to make himself smaller so nothing would get intimidated and smash into pieces on the floor. But his hands don't really make any mistakes, they're moving smoothly and surely when he works the knife, when he wraps his fingers around the stirring spoon.

“Stiles?” Blinking the vision of Derek's capable hands flexing, Stiles looks up. “They're getting brown?”

Stiles picks up the laid aside spoon, peers into the pot as he drags it through the soft pieces of onions. “Yep. Pour in the tomato puree now.”

Soon, the sauce is stuffed full of spices and reduced to a simmer – and it smells promising. Stiles knocks his shoulder against Derek's and grins at him proudly. “See? Easy peasy.”

Derek smiles back at him, warm and pressing back for a moment – before his face blanks and he looks away. “I think I've got it now.”

It's such a blatant dismissal, it makes Stiles' temper rise like steam, snaps. “Wow. Rude. You're welcome, though. It was downright a pleasure, in fact.”

Staring down on the simmering pot, Derek says, “Thanks.” But it sounds like anything but gratefulness and Stiles leaves the kitchen without another word.

He feels a little vindicated when they sit to eat, because it turns out that Derek could have used some pointers on how to boil pasta, too. The spaghetti are so overdone, they're falling apart. But it's kind of hard to be too angry with Derek when he flushes at the compliments, and is willing to give Stiles the credit he's due.

No one cooks on Sundays. They order in, though not even Laura works, and spend a few hours together in the living room. Talia and dad insist on it, like it's really important they bond and have fun together. It feels a little like detention. Whatever – they watch tv or play board games, and there are worse ways to spend evenings.

About the third time they gather around in the living room, still skeptical if not exactly unwilling, Scott takes out monopoly. Dad snorts, and even though his half-proud, half-frightened pat of Stiles' head quite clearly means these poor people have no idea what they're in for, he doesn't actually say anything.

Because he's a great planner, Stiles lowers himself down on the floor next to Derek. Soon he's full of money and needs a lot of space to keep it orderly, so he just has to lean over Derek and manage it on the wide, handy surface of the couch.

Derek doesn't protest loudly. He leans back on his hands in the beginning, but as Stiles' property and wealth grow, so does his boldness, and that's soon no help at all. Stiles needs leverage to reach his money and Derek is strong and steady, and helpfully still. When he finally reaches up to put his hand on Stiles' thigh, it's not to push him away. It just lays there for the next hour or so.

Okay, so maybe that tactic has bit him on the ass a little. Stiles is still willing to count the imprint of Derek's hand he can feel for days afterwards as a success of some sort.

*

It's been almost a month, and the things are working out. Except dad takes more people in the house for the guilt diluter about taking on more shifts, no one in the house knows how or doesn't care to cook so they end up eating too much takeout, Laura makes them all get up an hour too early to drive them to school on her way to work, Scott snores and Stiles has a huge, unrequited crush on Derek that with overexposure only reaches the point of a pining mania.

But yeah, things are mostly okay.

Today, though. Today Derek got picked up at school by this gorgeous blonde, Harris took a bunch of points off Stiles' test for handwriting – which is perfectly legible, thank you - and it's all started that morning when his dad complained about a headache and it turned out his blood pressure was sky rocketing.

So. Not a good day.

Scott is a great potential stepbrother – and an even better friend. He turns on the game console and sucks Stiles into a world of violence, where the only problem is where the next monster is hiding. Laura's at work, dad and Talia are out. It's getting dark when a car stops in front of the house. There are no neighbors close by, so after a fruitless few minutes of wait, Scott and Stiles look out the window. It's Derek, with that blonde of his. She's given him a ride home and they're now making out, parked in front of the house.

Stiles' jaw is aching, he's grinding his teeth that hard. He presses the switch to turn on the porch light with a force, and it hurts his fingers. Then he opens the front door wide open and leans against the jamb, hip to shoulder, arms crossed and a smile fixed on his place. He's staring right at Derek and his girlfriend, takes in the way they're touching, the way they mash together, and he knows he's being creepy and nasty. He knows.

But to hell with it.

“Stiles, maybe you should come back inside,” Scott says, but all it takes is, like, thirty seconds of pointed staring. The driver's side opens and the blonde comes out, tight smile brighter than the sun on her face. Scott hisses at Stiles' shoulder. “Shit, that's Kate. That's Allison's aunt.”

Allison's aunt, awesome. But that doesn't stop Stiles from smiling his deranged little smile at her.

“Hi,” Kate says lightly. “You're Derek's little brother, aren't you?”

Stiles hates her.  _ Hates _ .

“One would think, right? With us living under the same roof, parents madly in love.” Derek's face flares dangerously with  _ stop talking right now or I will end you _ . Like that ever works. “But nope. That's Scott, here. Say hi, Scott.”

Scott edges closer to the door to wave awkwardly. Kate frowns at him. “You're that kid who has a crush on Allison, right?”

Scott hasn't yet told Allison that, so it's just uncalled for. Especially since Stiles is the one who's being a jerk, not Scott. Well, it's not like he can't tune that up a notch or two.

“Yeah, about that, Scott,” Stiles says, smiling at Kate. Scott makes an undignified, terrified noise. “Do you know, are Allison's parents, like, still married? Because I'm thinking, maybe I should ask one of them out. And you should definitely check if her grandfather is available – I mean, we wouldn't want Laura to miss out on anything, right?”

“Stiles,” Derek grits out. “Get back inside.”

Kate, though. Kate's smile turns icky – and it somehow seems more honest. She leans forward, her blonde hair almost in his eyes when the wind picks it up. “So you think I'm too old for Derek.”

“Not at all, Kate, geez. You've got it all backwards. I think Derek is too young for you. Or, well, my dad will definitely think so – it's his sworn duty and in the actual job description to find and arrest statutory rapists. And he will want to show Derek's mom he's looking out for her kids. It just – it doesn't bode that well for you.”

“Your father works for the police?” Kate asks, glances at Derek once. Derek is too busy staring at Stiles like he's planning what he'll do with every individual, cut off part of his freshly murdered body.

“My father is the Sheriff,” Stiles announces proudly, just like that time he was in fourth grade and his dad first got elected – with glee and all the potential the position brings. “What, Derek didn't tell you that?”

Kate leans back, face blank. “It doesn't matter. Derek will be eighteen in a few months.”

“Ah, well. Suit yourself. I was only worried that Derek's little kitten heart doesn't get broken when you get thrown to prison. I'm not gonna  _ tattle _ or anything. And neither will Scott. Right, Scotty?”

“Right,” Scott says, looking lost.

“Well, then, we'll leave you to your evening – just keep in mind, my dad is due home pretty soon now.” Stiles winks at Kate, steps back and slams the door closed with a vicious satisfaction.

Scott breathes, “Derek's going to kill you.”

Stiles snorts. He's high on adrenaline and raw anger and isn't afraid of Derek one bit. He offers, “Save yourself. Run upstairs.”

Scott looks tempted for only a second. “No. No, you – I actually agree with you. I won't let him hurt you.”

“Derek's not gonna hurt me, Scott, seriously. Maybe he'll yell a little.” The car door outside opens and slams shut. The engine starts. “You should call Allison, tell her what happened. Kate will be pissed – you don't want Allison to hear the story from her. Who knows if she even realized I'm not you.”

She obviously has, but Scott runs upstairs to make sure of it. Stiles switches the light off, and waits for Derek in the entry hallway, just behind the door.

He doesn't try to, but if he did, he'd have no time to react as Derek storms inside. He grabs Stiles like he's known exactly where he'd find him, even in the near-dark, and slams him against the wall, snarling like a rabid dog. The wall hurts against Stiles' shoulders, his head is ablaze where he's hit it.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Stiles blinks away the dots and swallows to chase away the wave of nausea. “I don't know. Pissing you off? It's just sounded like a thing to do today.”

Derek hisses, “What's wrong with you?”

The nausea won't go away. Stiles licks his quickly drying lips, suggests, “My brain?”

Hands in his shirt clutch tight. “I liked her. And now she won't see me again.”

Stiles huffs, rolls his eyes. “You'd have to be seriously gay not to like a wet blonde on your cock, Derek. She's not that into you if all it takes to send her running is a teenager on a bad day.”

“A deranged teenager.”

Derek is easing away, a little, probably because he isn't fighting back, and Stiles' stomach is settling. He knows exactly how to push Derek's buttons, make him back off completely like burnt. Stiles clasps his hands around Derek's neck, lovers' style, which puts their faces so close they're breathing on each other.

But Derek doesn't flinch and jerk away. His hands slide to Stiles' hips instead. It's – disconcerting.

Stiles wets his lips again, says, “She'll see you again.”

“You think?” Derek grumbles.

“Sure. Did you see those boots? She's a thrill seeker – and you've just become a whole other level of risky. She'll pick you up, park her car someplace she knows the patrol cruises fairly often and fuck you there, in her back seat, where anyone who cares can see.”

Derek sighs, slumps. They're pressed together, right there against the wall behind the front door. Stiles wants to cry, a little, because the adrenaline and the rage are gone now, and all that's left is Derek – whom he's hurt – and his dad, who is still not well, and his chem grade, which is still a lot lower than he deserves.

“Why do you always talk about sex like that?” Derek whispers. His hands have slipped around Stiles' back and - and they're downright hugging.

“Like what?”

“Like it's this filthy thing only bad people do?”

Stiles tucks his chin into Derek's neck, because he can, apparently, and snorts. “Well, what do I know? Isn't it like that? Or it's like bubble baths and candle-lit bedrooms and love declarations?”

Derek smiles, and Stiles can feel it through the thin material of his shirt, a spreading wet warmth on his shoulder. “Can't you imagine anything in between?”

“Sure,” he swallows, as pictures assault his brain. “I can imagine you opening my pants right here. I can imagine you picking me up so I'd have to wrap my legs around you. I can imagine your dick, wet in my hand, heavy in my mouth, as you give me detailed instructions on what, exactly, you like b...”

The whispered words are cut off by Derek's hand, pressed against his mouth. “God, shut up.” The sound Derek's throat makes swallowing is so loud in Stiles' ears, like a handgun going off. Derek adds after a second, voice a ragged whisper, “I really shouldn't get this fucked up over a little virgin with a mean mouth and an overactive imagination.”

The press of his palm is not unforgiving. Stiles puts his hand on top of Derek's, slides his mouth until it's under the fingers and uses his thumb to press Derek's middle finger into his mouth. Derek makes a noise – a guttural, cut off word that never reaches Stiles' brain. He presses another finger inside Stiles' mouth on his own, though, so it's not like it's a protest. They taste sour and sweet, like Derek's maybe spilled something on his hands. Stiles twists his tongue around them until there's nothing but his spit, and then sucks it off before letting the fingers fall out of his mouth, so they wouldn't be all wet and gross.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little rough, as Derek breathes loudly in his neck, hands clenched. “You shouldn't. Which is why I sit quietly in my corner and only imagine and am not actually offering anything.”

Derek laughs, and he sounds slightly hysterical. “Jesus. I don't know whether to first point out that you've never been quiet for a minute as long as I've known you or demand to know what an actual offer looks like in that insane head of yours.”

“I'll have you know, I am quiet when I'm jerking off – who'd I be talking to, the bathroom mirror? And I have an official document that says that I'm not insane, so.”

“Is that a standard now? Do I need one of those? I'd be nice to know that mouth of yours isn't just something my barmy brain has cooked up.”

There's dry humor in the words, but Stiles at the end of the rope, really, so the only answer he can manage is, “I – I'm real.”

Derek lifts his hand so it'll cradle Stiles' neck, and presses a dry, light kiss on his temple. It's so gentle, like Stiles isn't the greatest jerk in the world, like he hasn't being the utter shit to his girlfriend. “You're an asshole – and you need to stop trying to sit on me whenever we're playing games together, because there are only so many boners I can hide in a room full of people. Okay?”

Stiles snorts and it sounds – wet. How long has he been crying, oh dear God? No wonder Derek is gentle, he doesn't want to deal with a sobbing mess.

“Well, I won't if you don't try to run away from me like I'm the last known carrier of the smallpox virus.”

“I promise,” Derek says. “And no more talking like that to the people I bring home, Stiles, that was...”

“Promise! Hey, I could talk to her, nicely, I mean, if you want, tell her – I don't know, something.”

“God, no. No. You'll piss each other off and there'll be a bloodbath. No,” Derek looks down, notices Stiles watching him with eyebrows raised. “Uh, no... thanks?”

“Uh-huh. Any other ground rules?”

Derek has no time to answer, there's a sound of steps – heels, nearing the front door. A second later and Derek's warm arms are on the other side of the hallway. Stiles puts his own hands behind him and leans on them. Talia walks inside, turns the light on and startles at the sight of them.

“Wha- what are you two doing down here in the dark?”

Ha, Stiles thinks crazily. Derek calmly nods at Stiles, “He's been upset about his dad.”

Talia looks at him, takes in what must be traces of tears, sighs, “Yeah, me too. Go wash your face and come to the kitchen – I'll put some cocoa on. I have a few ideas I want to run by you.”

Stiles nods and hurries upstairs. He can hear Scott's voice on the phone – Allison does not mind him having a crazy potential stepbrother, apparently. Good for her. Downstairs in the kitchen, he doesn't hesitate to grab the mug of warm chocolaty comfort when he's offered one. Derek doesn't leave the room – he even doesn't go to sit to the other side of the kitchen.

“Okay, so,” Talia says, so seriously that Stiles puts his mug down to give her full attention. “I have a friend – a good friend, who is a brilliant cardiac-surgeon. I've told your father he should see her, but you know him.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. His dad would hate only getting to see this great doctor because of a connection he's got, and also, the word surgeon probably scared him shitless.

“But. Nothing can stop me from inviting my dear friend over, to be my guest for a couple of days. And if she happens to look at his bloodwork and other results while she's here...”

“Uuuuh, I like that.” Stiles doesn't say I like  _ you _ , but he thinks Talia can hear it just the same. “He'll need to do the tests in the meantime – ECG, bloodwork...”

She waves him off, “I'll take care of that, he'll do it for me.”

“And I've got his old results, so she can compare. When can she come?”

Talia laughs. “Now, Stiles, he's only had an instance of a high blood pressure. This isn't an emergency. I'll talk to her and ask her when she can come. In the meantime, we'll try harder to keep to the diet he needs to be on. Okay?”

From the doorway, Laura surprises everyone when she speaks up, because no one's heard her walk in, “I'll take all your dishes duties if you take over my cooking night.”

Which, huh. Laura doesn't cook. She doesn't know how and is too often too tired to even try to learn. So she orders in on Fridays nights. And in exchange for this one phone call to her favorite restaurant, she's offering to actually wash dishes instead of Stiles.

“You – you don't have to. I can do both.”

Laura just brushes his hair on her way to the fridge. “Nah. I'm just glad we'll get to eat more of your cooking – it never bloats me.”

Stiles preens a little – after all, it's taken him years to learn how to cook the way he does today.

“Okay, since you guys are in the mood to solve all my problems,” Oops, they might ask what other problem has he had – Stiles hurries on, not looking at Derek at all, “Um, does anyone maybe feels like punching Prof. Harris in the throat?”

“I do!” comes the reply. From all thee of them. He laughs.

Talia makes a face. “I know him from way back. When I moved back last year, he asked me out. I, um. I went out with him once, but...”

“Oh my God, is that why he hates me so much? My dad got the girl he wanted?” And Talia is plenty older than him, too. “That's so immature! But, um. What did he do for all three of you to agree to punch him so quickly?”

“Nothing. I just found him... distasteful.”

Laura says, mouth full, “Sheer loyalty to your dad and his gun.”

“Scott told me what happened in class today,” Derek shrugs. “He gave you detention?”

“Uh, I. I deserved that. It's the points he knocked off my test for 'illegible handwriting' that is pissing me off. Half the test was circle the right answer and the other half required, like, one word answers – and no one else has ever complained they couldn't read my handwriting. It's bullsh... Sorry, Talia.”

She hums, seeps her cocoa. “I'll do the punching, you make sure you know the material in case things escalate.”

Wide eyed, Stiles nods. He already knows the material, he can revise it and broadens his knowledge instead – actually, he's kinda hoping this does escalate. He can make Harris a fool in front of his colleagues.

Scott comes down running, smile so wide it's threatening to cut into his ear space. “She's gonna go out with me!”

Laura looks like she's skipped a step. “Who will?”

“Allison!” Scott is not keeping his tone down one bit, he's that excited.

“Way to go, Scott!” Stiles cheers. “Where are you taking her?”

At that, Scott subdues a little. “Well, it's not like that. It's not a classical date. It's just, I mentioned it's my birthday soon and that I have no plans so she promised she'd spend it with me.”

“So it's a pity date?”

“Derek,” Talia admonishes.

“It is kinda pathetic, Scott,” Laura adds.

“Shut up.”

But not all is lost – Allison's willingness to spend time with Scott is giving Stiles ideas. “It's your birthday, though? We can work with that – we can throw you a surprise party!”

Scott looks confused. “It's not a surprise if I know about it, though?”

“Well, Allison will think it's a surprise.” No one seems to get him, so he waves his hands. “Look, you'll sad-puppy-eyes her to come over so you can watch a sad movie about sad lovey-dovey stuff. Okay? She'll be like, this poor boy, he shouldn't be alone tonight...”

“Pity date,” Derek mutters.

“But! When you come home, there's gonna be a lot of people who made you all sad because they were keeping it a secret that they were throwing you a party. So instead of a sad movie, you guys dance and have a lot of fun. There.”

Scott eyes him suspiciously. “And where am I supposed to find all these friends that'll throw me a party?”

Okay, so the plan has a little hole in it. “Well, that's – Derek's job.”

“It is?” Derek asks dryly.

“Yep. The whole school with come if you ask them to.”

“And I'll tell them what? My baby brother is too much of a chicken to ask a girl out, let's cheers to that?”

Laura snickers. She's still eating, the glutton.

“No. You'll tell them, it's my little brother's birthday this week – isn't that a great excuse to gather after school and drink ourselves half to death?” Talia coughs pointedly. “Not that anyone will! I'm just prone to hyperbole. There's not gonna be any alcohol around, in fact – my dad's a cop, like I'd dare, hehe. We'll all just - play monopoly and watch Firefly.”

“Right,” Talia says. “Well, I think I will take my boyfriend out for a weekend to the hotel on Friday. We need a little time away from all the noise you kids make. There better be no traces of any parties by Sunday afternoon, which is when we will come back.”

“I didn't agree,” Derek complains.

Scott takes over, though. “Please, Derek, please? It'll be your party, really, your friends and stuff! I'll just use the setting to make my move!”

Derek snorts. “Your move. Well I gotta see that.”

But Scott doesn't care. He's hugging Derek, hugging Stiles and his mom, even a laughing Laura, happily repeating, “Thank you! Thank you!”

“If someone makes a video of him getting shot down by that girl and it ends up on the internet, it'll be your fault,” Derek says lowly when Scott runs back up the stairs, presumably to indulge into his flowery Allison-centered fantasies.

“Please. One, if you think for a second Allison would ever say no, you haven't been paying attention at all. And two, no one in Beacon Hills is crazy enough to put a video of Allison Argent on the internet without her explicit permission. The last guy who did – he put up online these pictures of her on his blog, taken without her knowledge – well, let's just say he doesn't live around here any longer. And that the last time anyone's seen him, he was in hospital, with multiple fractures. It wasn't pretty.”

“Seriously?” Laura demands, mouth finally empty. “This is the girl Scott wants to ask out?”

“Well, in her defense, the pictures were of her in her bedroom. Taken through her window, from a tree she's got in her yard. So, yeah. The guy was a major creeper.”

Later, after dad comes home and they finish Talia's chicken breast and salad dinner (she's been serious about the diet), Derek comes to Scott and Stiles' room. He watches Scott's blissed out face with a frown for a second before he turns to Stiles.

“Where are we supposed to find alcohol for the party?”

Stiles grabs his wallet, smirks. “You take care of the guest list, Derek. I'll take care of the refreshments. After all, I do have this.”

Both Derek and Scott lean in to look at the card, but it's not engraved and they can't figure out what it is. “It's all-access security card to the police station. Forged, obviously – you can't tell my dad, he'll throw me into one of the cells and leave me there forever, this is actually a serious crime to have.”

“Really?” Scott breathes.

“Okay, but how does it help us?”

“Um, Derek... Where do you think all the alcohol they confiscate goes?”

“Um, in their bellies?”

“Well, some, sure. The rest, though... Don't worry, I've done this half a dozen times. There's two people to get around – meh, piece of cake – and well, since it's more than a few bottles this time, some help. A car, maybe.”

“Won't they notice?”

“No. I'll take care of it. Seriously, you just get people here. It's gonna be awesome.”

Derek tries to look suspicious and disbelieving, but he actually looks a little impressed. The warm feeling the expression on his face induces lulls Stiles to sleep that night.

*

Laura is left to supervise, through Stiles suspects she'll put in some ear plugs, lock her door and use her one free day to actually get some rest. He hopes, anyway – her dark circles are starting to worry him.

The whole school is buzzing with the news of Derek's party. Stiles invites the few friends he has – Heather and Harley – and recruits them to help him with, um, obtaining the beverage. It's not their first time, and Stiles doesn't want Scott involved, in case they do get caught somehow. It's his birthday.

On Friday at lunch, Jackson Whittemore stops by the table Stiles shares with the girls and, of late, Scott and sometimes Allison. He says, easily like he does it every day, “Stilinski. Hale says you're in charge of the booze. Should I bring something?”

At a loss, Stiles frowns at Jackson, who is not supposed to be aware of his existence, less alone his name. “Um, if you want? It can't hurt. But I've got it covered.”

Jackson twists his mouth, doubtful. He nods at the others at the table, like a king greeting his people from afar – but hey, it's a hello from Jackson! - and turns away. Danny, Jackson's friend and an all around nice (though a bit snarky) guy, pauses to lean in and tells Stiles quietly, “Wear that olive t-shirt of yours, the one that says ' I can't think straight' on the back, just above your ass?”

Horrified, Stiles hisses, “Oh my God, Danny, that's too small – it was a gag gift! I only wore it when I had no other choice!” He's worn it that one time when his house flooded and there was nothing else dry to put on.

“And I noticed,” Danny pointedly says, with an adorable half-smile. “You haven't grown a lot, it should still fit – and no over-shirts.”

Stiles watches him go, mouth agape. He's not sure if Danny is messing with him or what – he'll need a second opinion. Maybe Laura. He looks back at the table, where everyone's staring at him. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? What was that about?” Harley says.

Allison is looking after the guys. “Are you throwing a party?”

“Why would Jackson and Danny come to a party I throw?” Stiles tells her reasonably – it's true, after all. “No, it's for – a church event.”

“A church event?” She asks blankly. She isn't stupid, that much's always been clear. He should have thought about this scenario. Heather is snickering into her yogurt cup, the traitor, and Harley is leaning back in her seat, eyebrows daring him to get away with that excuse.

He aims and kicks her knee under the table.

“Yeah. Um, his mom and – and Scott's mom, they're in the same church and there's a pie bake-off. Tomorrow. We got roped into helping, obviously.”

“Oh,” Allison says, turning back to her food. “Is it for charity? Can I do something to help?”

Scott looks so smitten, he might start to cry at her offer. “I don't know – I mean, Scott doesn't have to help, since it's his birthday, but the rest of us, we won't be around all day tomorrow.”

He reminds her of Scott's birthday on purpose, the sentence isn't any sort of answer to her question, and it works, she looks up at Scott. “Oh, that's why you said you weren't doing anything? Because everyone in your family is busy?”

“Yeah,” Scott tells her, eyes downcast and sad. Whoa, he's better at this than Stiles has given him credit for. “I'm probably gonna just watch some movies.”

Allison takes a quick breath, looks around as if to assess the audience for potential assholes, offers bravely, “I'll keep you company, like we talked. We could watch movies together.”

Scott melts. “Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that.”

Stiles is an excellent planner.

*

Stiles knocks on her door dutifully – he's never been in there before. “Laura?”

She calls, “Come in.”

Her room is blue and gets a lot of morning sun. She's still in her pajama, but putting her makeup on already – she's supposed to be going into work soon, she's got the first shift this week. But she'll be back by late afternoon, just in time to 'supervise' - which, Stiles was right, means she'll go to bed early and sleep in tomorrow. “Morning. Can I, um, ask you something?”

“What's wrong?”

She's so serious about it, God. Like he's come to ask for an advice on a life-changing decision. Awkwardly, Stiles rubs his neck. He doesn't want to bother her, but he doesn't trust Scott's taste and doesn't want to go to Derek for this.

Actually, huh. Having a range of quasi-siblings to pick from doesn't suck.

“Um, this guy at school, he gave me an advice on what to wear tonight and honestly, I'm not completely sure if he's pulling my leg or not.”

“Okay,” Laura says. “But that's the plaid you wear all the time.”

Stiles shrugs off the overshirt with an eyeroll. He feels ridiculous as Laura's eyebrows reach her bangs. “Turn around.”

With a sigh, he does. She snickers and he puts the shirt back on. “Okay, thanks. That'd be a no.”

“Wait, Stiles – no, it's the text, it's great. I love it. The shirt is great, too, it looks good on you.”

She seems earnest, but Stiles doesn't know her that well. “Really?”

“Yes! Come on, take that ugly thing off again, I want another look.”

Reluctantly, Stiles shrugs the over shirt again. Laura points her phone and takes a picture.

“Oh, come on, I know it's bad but surely it's not that bad?”

“Shush,” she says, typing something. “I'll show you.”

The phone in her hand starts buzzing with answers almost immediately. She gives it to him without even looking at the screen.

She's sent a picture of him to a bunch of people in a closed group of some sort. It's only his front, without the tailtext. The caption says – my lil stepbro, getting ready for a party. Y/N?

The answers are flooding in.

y

looks good

ooohhh, cutie <3

Y

yes

y how young are we talking here, Laurs? ;)

yeah – different jeans, tho

 

Stiles gives her back her phone, his ears burning. She glances at it.

“He's right – you'll need different pants with that. Put the plaid back on, let's see what you've got.”

Bemused, Stiles puts his shirt back on. Laura winks at him, wicked and teasing, whispers conspiratorially, “We don't want Derek to see you just yet, do we?”

She probably wants him to feel embarrassed, and he plays along, squeaks indignantly but under that, he wonders – doesn't Laura think he's being weird, with his stupid crush?

“You don't have to play dress up with me, you'll be late for work!”

“Meh,” Laura shrugs. “They'll survive a few minutes. Shhh, now, walk quietly – we don't wanna get caught.”

Stiles finds himself tiptoeing, even though it doesn't make any sense. The hall is carpeted, anyway, and swallows all but the loudest steps. They're both sneaking by Derek's door like some sort of catpeople in a theater, or thieves. Stiles sighs with relief when grabs a hold of the knob of his and Scott's room, Laura keeping close and silent...

Then the door behind them creaks open and he shrieks, loud and high, startled. Laura howls with laughter.

“What are you two doing?” Derek asks, eyebrows drawn together, an empty glass in his hand.

Stiles pulls his shirt tighter around his chest, says, “Nothing!”

“We were keeping quiet so we don't wake you up,” Laura says between two hoots.

“I came back from a run an hour ago.”

“It's not that funny,” Stiles tells Laura, who's just laughing harder. “Actually, it's not funny at all.”

But Derek's mouth is curving, too – laughter is contagious – so Stiles huffs and escapes into his own room, away from them. Laura follows after a few minutes, apparently still set on finding him the right pair of pants for tonight.

She does find a pair she likes – they belong to Scott. Used to belong to Scott, actually, back when he was, like, twelve. It's a sibling thing, Stiles is sure, a prank she's cooking up for him – but the joke's on her. Stiles is not wearing that, not even if it's the last pair of pants in town.

He shouldn't have said that last part out loud. Laura actually calls into her work place to tell them she'll be running a little late and then proceeds to teach him a lesson in being a quasi-sibling. She openly gives money to a baffled Scott to take Allison out in style before they come to the party that afternoon and then shamelessly ropes him into finding and taking all of Stiles' bottom clothes to her car trunk.

Laura is scary, so he dares not physically try and take back his possessions. He does beg, threaten, bargains and blackmails. This last bit would totally work, too, if only he's had something to blackmail her with. That will be his life's goal from now on – spy and find blackmail material on Laura – Stiles decides, following her and Scott as they mercilessly take his pants away from him.

Derek comes out of the kitchen to see what's the problem. Derek, who might be willing to help.

Stiles points his finger at Laura, “She's making me wear Scott's baby breeches!”

“Get used to it – I'm talking to mom about this, you need clothes that actually fit you.”

“Breeches?” Derek mutters to himself.

“Denim breeches – Scott's jeans, Derek, from when he was nine and she took all of mine away – they're just, I can't breathe and I feel naked.”

Blankly, Derek asks, “Are they ripped?”

“No, they're not ripped, they're too tight. If I wanted dozens of people to see every curve of my ass, I'd be walking around with no clothes on!”

“Surely...” Derek cuts himself off, huffs. “No, you know what? I'll let you borrow some of mine if you make breakfast.”

“Deal!”

There's no way even the tightest of Derek's jeans (and he does like them tight, but thank God for that) can be as snug as Scott's. In thanks, Stiles makes Derek – and only Derek – the most delicious pancakes in the world, all sweet vanilla and delightful chunks of dark chocolate. Scott looks like a kicked puppy – and fine, Stiles is a weakling. He leaves a few out in the open, long after Derek's done eating, before he heads out to meet with his friends and replace all the liquor confiscated the previous week or two by the police with bottles full of colored water. It's a complicated operation that involves scouting first, distractions and a decent amount of upper-body strength later and it'll take the entire morning.

He has no choice but to wear Scott's jeans, because he can't go out in pajama pants, but luckily Laura hasn't taken any of his shirts away, so he grabs a stretched out hoodie he's meant to throw out and covers his ass.

At least the stupid pants don't actually limit his movement – that would have made climbing through the window and sneaking below the camera's range very uncomfortable.

Stiles regrets thoroughly his bleeding heart when he comes back home to find Derek snarling at Scott in the middle of the living room, hand tight in Scott's button-up. “...right now.”

“Um,” he interrupts uncertainly – he can't imagine Scott do anything that requires this amount of rage. “What's going on?”

Derek drops Scott to turn on him. “You. What did you do to Laura to wind her up this much?”

“Nothing.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles throws his hands up as Derek starts his menacing approach, “Nothing! I swear! Danny said something yesterday – so I asked her for an advice, that's all. She sent my picture to her friends, some guy said I need better fitting clothes or whatever and then she was dragging me around and cackling like a crazy woman!”

Derek doesn't look convinced, or mollified. He yanks on his hair, all the muscles screaming in frustration - which is glorious enough to distract Stiles for just a second or two longer... but not more than that because oh fuck, he's only in some navy boxer briefs under that shirt.

“What...?”

“She paid Scott take all my pants, too! Even the sweatpants!” Derek glares at him, accusing. “This is what I get for trying to help you.”

There's a little whitish dragon on Derek's underwear and Stiles needs to stop being a freak and he needs to stop staring. Fortunately, Derek moves away to hide behind the couch.

Mind flaring with pictures, Stiles licks his lips, “Do you, um, do you have to wear Scott's jeans, too, now?”

That'll never work, though. Derek will never, ever fit into those. He huffs, “They left me one pair. So that you can't borrow any.”

“It's okay,” Stiles assures him quickly. “These aren't that bad when I'm wearing something longer over it. See?”

He demonstrates by kicking out his denim covered leg. Derek frowns, bends head like he's trying to see under the hoodie. “Lift that up for a second.”

“Um...”

“A second,” Derek insists.

Reluctantly and with cheeks already feeling warm, Stiles lifts the stretched out cotton up and puts it back in place as quickly as he can. Derek's frustrated hand is now covering his forehead.

“Laura's right. You do need better fitting clothes.”

“Traitor,” Stiles hisses at him, then remembers, “Oh, and Harley is driving the goods over, she's supposed to arrive any moment now – so you help her out, okay? Scott's room needs to be purged of all stuffed animals in case he gets Allison to go up there with him – and if some of his clothes disappears, too, well. It wasn't me.”

“Harley,” Derek says with an adorable little frown, trying to recall Stiles' friends like he's ever actually met them. “The blonde one?”

“Nope, the other one. Heather is the blonde - ,” and because Scott has silently escaped many minutes ago, and Derek is walking around the house in his tight underwear and asking for it and Stiles is just dying to know if he'll react at all, he sits down on the armrest of the couch and confides, “she's the one I have an agreement with to lose our virginities to one another if neither of us finds someone better before her seventeenth birthday – which is only a few months away now. Clever, right?”

“Ingenious,” Derek says blankly, repeats. “Heather, the blonde?”

“Uh-huh.”

Derek comes to stand near him, one hand on the couch. His crouch is not exactly on level with Stiles' head, but it still feels more natural to look down at the little eastern-style dragon than up at Derek's face.

“So all I need to do is find this girl a boyfriend?”

“All you need to – you only need to put on some pants, Derek, this is obscene.”

It is obscene, and now that Stiles is looking carefully and from a forgiving distance, he can see that Derek is not exactly soft in his underwear. And there's a tiny smudge in the front, like maybe a drop of piss remained after he's been to the bathroom, and some precome leaked out. Cursed with curiosity, Stiles leans forward and inhales deeply.

Derek's hand grabs his head. The intention, Stiles is pretty sure, has been to stop him from getting too close. The result is stopping him from moving away.

“What. Are you doing.” Derek grinds out between his teeth.

Stiles dares to glance up, barely lifting his chin. Derek looks like he's just run a mile, flushed and winded. “Convincing you to put on pants?”

“Is it working,” Derek says, jaw too tight to make it sound like a question.

Well, he's said Derek should put on some pants. So if his brain has gone somewhat blank afterwards, that's because Derek hasn't listened to him.

Stiles looks back down. Derek's dick has gotten visibly harder, straining against the thin fabric - and staining it. So, yeah, definitively precome this time. It's wetting the cotton, spreading, and the scent of it is making Stiles go stupid. He leans forward, mouth open already – but Derek's hand tightens in his hair so harshly it kinda hurts, and... Okay, that's a noise Stiles hasn't wanted to know he's capable of producing, it's high and painfully honest with demand and plea.

Derek swears, twists his fingers tighter and wrenches another noise out of Stiles – this one's just a loud, heartfelt moan.

“Fine, I'll find some shorts.”

Stiles first registers the lack of the hand in his hair and then the gruff, uneven words sink in. And he smiles a smile that feels dark and heavy. Sure he's worked up and just about ready to rub himself off on the couch, but he's also won. And anyway, after seeing Derek in his underwear up close, surely seeing him fully dressed will be underwhelming from now on. So, that plan to build the resistance through overexposure? Yep, could still in motion.

But maybe he's underestimated his emotional investment in this fucked up game they've started playing, because there's nothing happy in Derek walking away. Derek will possibly get off later – hell, maybe even to what's just happened here - but then he'll shake it off and get ready for the party and his girlfriend will be over and...

...And that's Harley, not going easy on her horn. Impatient girl. Derek comes back – in a pair of basketball shorts. He startles, almost stumbles, when he sees Stiles hasn't moved an inch from his place on the edge of the couch.

“Stiles? Scott's room? Purging?”

He nods, walks past Derek and up the stairs. If there's one really good thing about that day, it's that'll end in lots of alcohol.

*

Not that Stiles is any sort of expert, but he still thinks that Scott's party is a smashing success. It's after midnight already, and Scott and Allison have spent most their time dancing together. People are still coming in, having fun, whatever. The music is – well, it's loud.

Stiles is so sober he wants to cry. He's seen Derek drink, and Scott shouldn't think about such inane things right then, but someone needs to keep an eye out on things. So he's mostly sitting to the side, making rounds, being a host. Even watching the most popular kids in school make fools of themselves, spill drinks on their expensive clothes and make out with people decidedly below their level in dark corners gets boring after a while.

Stiles has about fifty incriminating pictures thus far in his phone, and some are gold.

In the kitchen, at the isle, Jackson is trying to outdrink one of Derek's basketball teammates. It's loud and crowded around them, people yelling and cheering. It smells awful. Stiles wrinkles his nose. They're gross.

“You're determined not to have any fun tonight, huh,” says a voice on his right. Danny smiles when Stiles frowns at him. “You decided not to take my advice?”

Stiles unzips his over-sized hoodie half way down and shows Danny the olive shirt he's wearing underneath with a grimace. “You've no idea what kind of chaos you caused with that one advice, Danny.” Danny looks keenly interested, so Stiles tells him, “I wanted to double check with Laura, and she ended up taking away all my pants – and Scott's newer ones - to her car, so I'd have to wear Scott's old jeans.”

Danny looks down at Stiles' legs, snorts, “Seriously?”

“Yep. And when Derek offered to lend me some of his, she paid Scott to steal all of those, too.” Danny laughs a little, this cute, subtle, but honestly amused laugh. Stiles shakes his head, “If one of us manages to get something spilled on tonight, we'll have to break into her closet.”

The crowd moves a little, and Stiles can suddenly see Derek in there. He's sitting in one of the chairs near the stove and there's a dark-haired girl in his lap, laving at his ear with her tongue.

“What?” Danny asks, follows his line of sight. Before he can make a comment, Stiles asks, “Does he look drunk to you?”

“Derek? A little bit, maybe. He doesn't really drink much in general – especially not like Jackson.” Jackson is barely holding his head upward as they speak. But he's not a problem of Stiles'. “Why?”

“'Cause I want to get drunk, that's why. And then I'm gonna dance or something.”

There's a bottle of a good quality absinthe Stiles has stashed on the top of the cabinet over the fridge. There are no chairs free. Stiles makes his way there, he needs to find a way to climb, and Danny follows. Stiles narrows his eyes on a basketball player sitting on the nearest chair, slumping forward.

He turns to Danny, challenges, “Gonna dance with me?”

Danny blinks, leans forward to whisper, “I don't hook up with people from school – it's awkward, afterwards.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That's common knowledge, Danny. As it's the fact that you're a swell dancer. No hands, I promise – just don't wanna start alone.”

“No hands?” Danny drawls, tone teasing, “Well, what's the fun in that? Okay, under one condition.”

“Oh?” Stiles says, but can't wait for the answer, because the guy in the chair has moved and it's his chance. He puts his foot on the temporarily free surface of the chair, uses it to prompt himself up on the counter and drags the bottle out of its hiding place. He jumps back down, stumbles a little.

Danny steadies him, hands in Stiles' hoodie, grin on his face. “Get rid of this offensive rag, right now. I will not be caught on camera with anyone wearing this.”

Stiles nods. “Grab us some glasses, they're over your head.”

As Danny takes out some real glasses – it seems somehow rude to drink this thing out of the plastic ones – Stiles shrugs off his outer layer. He's feeling slightly self-conscious, but not nearly as much as he has while everyone was still sober. There are at least two guys in the kitchen alone who aren't wearing shirts at all any longer, so what does it matter?

“What's that, anyway?”

Stiles swishes the bottle, shows Danny the blue label. “It's some sort of pricey absinthe.”

It's pricey, and so aromatic and strong it makes him blink a few times after getting a whiff of it.

“Shouldn't it be green?” Danny asks, leans in to sniff it for himself.

“Guess not. Want it straight, or?”

Danny laughs, eyebrows up. “When do I ever?”

“Don't set it on fire, it'll just burn out the alcohol.”

Stiles startles, looks back to find Lydia Martin smiling her oh-I'm-so-cute-and-popular smile at him. He shrugs, “I was just gonna water it down, it's a bit too strong.”

She nods, smile turning amused. “Anise based?”

Despite Harris' best efforts, Stiles is actually quite good at chemistry. He grins. “Yeah, it's gonna louche.”

Mixed with water, the absinthe turns milky white. It tastes a little bitter and minty, but well worth the effort to grab it from the station.

Danny and Stiles cheers and bottoms up. Stiles grabs the absinthe, Danny takes the water bottle and they head out to the living room, where there's room to dance. Before they can quite make it, Lydia stops him with a hand on his chest, eyes mischievous.

“I have to take Jackson home later, since Danny is apparently indulging in some revelry - but do you think I can have a taste of that?”

She should have asked while the glasses were full – oh, but she's got something else in mind. She has to prop herself forward on his shoulders to reach him, but her lips unmistakably land on his. Eyes falling shut, Stiles is thinking is everyone watching this? is Derek watching? And he opens his mouth and touches her tongue with his. It's a short, sweet kiss, but not in any way innocent.

“Hmm,” Lydia hums, pleased. “I think I'll get me a bottle of that.”

Then she turns back to her drunk boyfriend, who's still trying to win in a drink off against that baseball player like nothing's happened. Stiles hides his smile, continues his advance toward the living room. Lydia and Jackson are dating, but both of them are occasionally seen with others. He's just never in a million years expected to be one of those people.

Danny mixes them each another drink on the top of the shelves – he's a quick study. Stiles licks his lips, decides to ask, “So is it the Hales, or the shirt?”

Danny gives him a refilled glass, full to the brim. “For me? It was a good look on your ass when you climbed that counter. For Lydia? Probably you using the word louche.”

Stiles takes a good look on Danny's lopsided, inviting smile, raises an eyebrow slowly, “Not with the people from school, huh?”

Danny finishes his second drink, steps close to put his thumbs under the waist of Stiles' jeans and turns his smile heady and promising, “I'll be out of high school soon enough, anyway. Come on, you said you wanted to dance.”

And so they drink, and they dance, and they kiss a lot in between. Everything is warm and dizzy, soaked in alcohol and the addictiveness of feeling attractive. Hands wander and Danny is not shy to show his and take notice of Stiles' arousal, but neither one of them suggests they go someplace private.

It's easy, and it's fun.

By the time they finish the bottle – though not all by themselves, Stiles has been feeling generous and so he's made drinks for Scott and Allison a few times - and Danny prepares to go home, there's barely anyone there any longer. A few couples are still making out in corners, some drunks are trying to sober up enough to find the exit. Stiles sinks into the soft couch.

There's a girl already there. Stiles greets her; he knows her. She's the girl with the seizures, Erica. Her smile is shy and soft, and she looks prettier than usual – it's not the alcohol, it's the effort she's made. Stiles isn't sure how she got invited, there's no way in hell Derek knows her. Probably through someone else, through association.

It doesn't matter. He strikes up a conversation, she talks back – less and less shy as their inane DC debate grows more passionate. When she, all flushed, moves a lock of hair out of her eyes, Stiles leans in and kisses her. That's been going so well for him all night. She startles, freezes. Starts moving her lips against him carefully – oh, he's just taken someone's kissing virginity.

Stiles isn't drunk enough not to know better – and she's not drunk at all, he's sure. So he's gentle and patient, and is rewarded when she grows confident enough to experiment, because kissing her soon turns good. She ends up in his lap. Stiles has to force himself to be careful with his hands so he doesn't push her too far, but it's still fun.

Erica's friends come to hurl her away, she's gotta go home. He's smiling at her back until she's out of sight, then closes his eyes for a moment.

It's still deep night when he wakes up, mouth dry like gunpowder, and no one's in the room with him. The light is still on in the kitchen. When Stiles makes his way in there, Derek is cleaning up the mess already.

“Hey,” he calls. Derek grabs some paper cups with force, doesn't answer.

Stiles props himself up and sits on the kitchen isle. He's always kinda wanted to do that, only it'd be gross. This is likely his only chance.

“I'm thirsty,” he complains. Derek glares at him over his shoulder, grabs a glass and fills it with tap water. He makes a puddle on the isle when he slams the glass there, and Stiles greedily grabs it.

“Get off,” Derek demands in a snarl. “I just washed that.”

“I'll wash it again tomorrow,” Stiles promises, not bothering to sniffle a yawn. “We should go to bed.”

“So go.”

God, he's in a mood. Stiles lifts one leg to sort of block his passage when Derek walks by close enough, a fresh trash bag in his hands. He stops to give Stiles a murderous glare, so Stiles snaps, “What, Derek? What?”

There's another snarl, and then Derek's on him, hands gripping tight and mouth hot and harsh. It's so unexpected Stiles doesn't even react. That doesn't stop Derek from grabbing his jaw and line it up to his linking, press inside with a bruising force and – and Derek is kissing him.

And he might stop, any second now, he might come to his senses and stop. Stiles desperately grabs him back, one hand on his neck and the other in his hair, kisses back as hard as he can. It's like having a fever dream, a crushing vision that slams into all your senses with white hot fury. He'll have bruises everywhere Derek's putting his hands now, like he's being punished and not kissed.

All too soon, Derek tears away – and even with all the kisses he's got that night, Stiles knows that six months from now, this will be the one he'll still be taking to bed with him.

They're just breathing for a moment, Derek out of reach. Stiles has made a mess of his hair, and of his mouth, which look all puffy and inflamed.He doesn't speak, and his lips are turning back into the tight line of anger, so Stiles dares to ask before he's back to full on fury.

“So what was that for?”

“What difference does it make?” Derek bites off. “Just another kiss tonight, right?”

“Well, maybe for you,” Stiles shoots back and then, mockingly. “What, were you jealous?”

Derek looks at him like he's the biggest idiot in the world, says, “Of course I was.”

Stiles closes his eyes, thinks about that girl earlier, licking Derek's ear, about Kate and her fancy car with a probably spacious back seat, about a whole range of faceless cheerleaders and whatnots that sit with Derek at school and disappear someplace with him only to come back with obvious signs of the heavy makeout sessions. Stiles understands jealousy, but...

“Come here.”

Derek comes easily, like he's only needed the invitation. He nestles himself into the v of Stiles' thighs – they fit together so well like this. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles, all that rage sucked out of him through that one admission.

“You should be,” Stiles tells him, clasping his hands behind Derek's back. “I've had to watch you take on someone new every other week for months now, Derek, what do you think that's like?”

Derek presses a light kiss on his jaw. It hurts a little - it's likely a place he's got bruised somehow. Stiles forgets about it as soon as Derek's mouth slips lower, down to his neck. From there, between some more light kisses, comes a murmur, “Not the same.”

It's remarkable he even knows what Derek is on about anymore, but, “Oh, really? Your jealousy means more than my jealousy?”

Those – those are Derek's teeth. Stiles gasps as they scrape his sensitive skin. “Yes. Your jealousy just means you're a brat.”

“I'm not following your stupid logic,” Stiles complains just before Derek bites down with purpose. There's gonna be a mark there come morning, there's no way there won't be – and God, he's catching fire as Derek works it into his skin. Stiles is breathing through his mouth just to get enough air and rutting lightly against Derek's stomach, like in a delirium. His head is heavy, mind blurry – he's been hard for most of the night, through the buzz of the alcohol and the music and the warm bodies wrapped around his. He's not even moving that much, they're just these little, lazy thrusts into the delicious friction that's Derek - and when the curl of heat sneaks up on him and washes over, he doesn't even think to try and stop it.

Derek groans, low and pained, and holds on to him through it.

“Sorry,” Stiles croaks.

Hands on his hips spasm. “I have to let go now, or I'll fuck you stupid.”

“You say it like I'd be a bad thing.”

Derek moves away, but at the moment that doesn't mean much. Stiles is still high on his orgasm, still a little drunk, probably, still so warm.

“Go to bed – or take a shower. Allison is still here, so sleep in my room.”

Stiles hops off the counter. Eh, he's yucky. “You gonna come sleep with me?”

“I'll take the couch. Go, Stiles.”

Well, even without Derek there, it's still Derek's bed. Stiles goes upstairs happily.

*

There's no hangover the next morning, just thirst and some sluggishness. Stiles makes his way downstairs, where everything smells like burgers and fresh air that's coming through the open windows.

Laura's voice comes, “... be more out of it. Wasn't it fun?”

“You don't have to get drunk to have fun,” Scott tells her confidently. “It was great.”

“Right,” Laura says. “Did at least Stiles get sloshed?”

“Not that much,” Derek informs her.

“What do you mean, not that much?” Scott demands. “He was dancing!”

“That usually only requires a lick of alcohol for courage, Scott,” Laura says dryly.

“He was also kissing people.”

“That doesn't actually require any alcohol at all.”

Stiles reaches the kitchen, snorts. “You were dancing, too.”

The three of them are sitting around the isle, in the middle of a breakfast. Laura must have went out and bought it, expecting them all to be hungover.

“Not like you did,” Scott says. “People were taking pictures of you and Danny... And that wasn't there when Danny left, either.”

He's staring at the huge hickey Stiles fell asleep last night pressing his thumb into. Stiles takes a seat between Laura and Derek, raises his eyebrows at Scott, “You mean, you crawled out of Allison's throat long enough to notice?”

Scott, bless his little fluffy heart, grins happily, “Yeah. No, I mean, I happened to notice. And I saw you necking with that girl on the couch, who was she?”

“Erica? You only share about three to four classes with her, Scott.”

“Is she your girlfriend, now?” Scott teases.

“As much as Danny is, I suppose. Any coffee for me?”

Stiles makes a mistake of glancing at Laura and she – well, if she dies from suppressing the laughter, he might have to take the full responsibility. She says, somewhat fondly, “You slut.”

He gapes at her. “Am not!”

“Uh-huh. How many people have you been with last night, huh?”

“Only, like,” Lydia and Danny, Erica and... Yeah. “Four. I kissed four people, okay? That's nothing.”

“Nothing? I haven't kissed four different people in the whole last year,” Laura tells him, but he can see she's not serious.

“I haven't kissed four people in my life,” Scott adds, pouting.

Stiles turns to Derek, for some support – I mean, everyone knows he's kissed much more than four people, and within the last year. But Derek just presses a fresh mug of coffee toward Stiles – a mug he's poured because Stiles has asked for coffee. “Don't look at me, I've at the most kissed two people in one night. And even that's recent.”

“Fine,” Stiles sighs into the warm, aromatic steam coming out of his mug, which helps him not ask How recent? “I'm a slut. But I'm blaming Scott's jeans – no one's ever wanted to make out with me before I put those on.”

Laura rolls her eyes, “That's because your clothes works like a semi-functional invisibility cloak. People are pretty sure there's someone there, but they can't actually see you, lost in the layers. And you're welcome, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks, Laura. Tell me you've brought my stuff back – I'm definitely not wearing the beeches to the school tomorrow.”

“Stop calling them that,” Scott complains. “And I'm taking them back. If they can make four people kiss you, I wanna wear them in front of Allison and see what happens.”

Even Derek cracks up at that.

“I'll talk to mom about getting you some fitting clothes, all of your own, anyway,” Laura promises.

“You're making me sound like one of those Dickens' orphans – which implies my dad wasn't taking a good care of me, Laura. You'd better not make him feel like that.”

He's kinda joking – or, more likely, he's pretending to joke. She'd better not worry his dad.

Lara waves him off, “I'll blame it all on your taste, don't worry. It's where the blame actually is. We're talking fitting here, not expensive.”

“Speaking of Allison,” Scott injects like they really have been talking about Allison. “What happened with her aunt?”

Good question, though, Scott.

“What aunt?” Laura wants to know.

“The one Derek's been dating. Did she ever call you back, Derek?”

Laura widens her eyes comically, “You've dated someone's aunt?”

Which. What with her disproving glee and Derek's red ears, it's hilarious.

Derek shrugs, very – very – nonchalant about it. “She's only twenty.”

“Yeeeah?” Stiles prompts. “Twenty...?”

“Twenty one,” Derek snaps.

“Yeah, no, try again. Twenty seven? Twenty nine?”

Laura's glee is giving way to an actual worry, but it's fine. Stiles is, as per usual, blowing it out of proportion.

“Uh, no,” Scott breaks the tension. “She's twenty three, remember when we asked Allison?”

“Right,” Stiles says, suspecting Scott only got involved because it got him to say Allison's name. “But yeah, you never told us. What happened with her?”

“Why do you think something happened? Derek changes girlfriends all the time.”

“But I'm the slut,” Stiles mutters. He thinks they all look a little guilty at that, so he soldiers on. “I was – a little rude once when she dropped Derek off.”

“A little rude? You threatened to have her arrested for statutory rape!”

“Yeah, dude, you totally did,” Scott adds.

“To my defense, Derek actually is illegal for her to date – I didn't make that up,” Stiles points out. “And I bet nothing I said made any difference, anyway. Right?”

Derek looks between the three of them, indecisive for a second. Then he shrugs. “Yeah. She called the next day, we went out again.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Derek,” Stiles says, because any fool can see there's more to the story.

“And after the meal at the diner, she wanted us to have sex in her car,” Derek grits out. “In the Main Street Cafe parking lot.”

Half the police station's widows look out on that parking lot. Stiles stammers, a bit awed at her boldness, “So I wasn't right after all. I have severely underestimated her.”

“Who is this nutcase?” Laura wonders. Scott makes a noise of protest, but no one cares. “Tell me you're not seeing her any longer.”

“Tell us you didn't really have sex with her out there,” Stiles begs. “She might not mind getting arrested, but you eat at least one meal a day at the table with my father. That – it'd be beyond awkward.”

Surely she wasn't worth the risk?

“Now that's really none of your business,” Derek tells them, and walks out of the room before anyone can complain and ask more questions.

“Huh,” Laura says, seeps her coffee and turns to Stiles. “So. What's your favorite color?”

He groans.

“Come on, I got four people to kiss you with a single intervention. What do you think it'll happen after I take you shopping?”

“I'm too worried about how I'll ever survive the shopping itself to imagine.”

Impatiently, Laura demands, “Color?”

And so it starts.

*

On Thursday, Stiles is eating alone. Harley is trying to solve the problems she's had for homework for her next class, Heather is home sick and Scott and Allison are eating their lunch someplace more private. He's got the book he's checked out from the library open in his lap – it's called Medieval Intrigue and it's interesting enough that Stiles doesn't mind particularly being abandoned.

Then Danny slides into the empty seat across him.

“We should go out.”

Stiles eyes him suspiciously, because the only interaction he's had with Danny since the party was on Monday, when Danny saw him in by the lockers, pointed his neck and declared, laughing, “I didn't do that!” To which Stiles replied, “You left early, though.”

“Like on a date?”

He'd wince at the please-no-no-no undertone of the question, 'cause getting a date with Danny would be, realistically, like hitting jackpot. Danny waves him off before he can, “To the club.”

There's only one club in Beacon Hill, where everything and everyone goes. He's been a few times, but drinks are expensive and standing there like a tool is meh, so it's not something he and his friends do often.

Somehow, he's thinking clubbing with Danny would be different.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. “Why me?”

“Why not? You're not a bad dancer, once you have enough alcohol not to care if anyone's watching, and you do clean up nicely.”

The last part Danny says pointedly looking at Stiles' clothes. It's the crap Laura's made him buy.

Stiles groans, “Don't remind me. I've spent two whole afternoons at the mall with Laura, and it's apparently only the beginning. She has to work on a budget, so she's making me put on everything at least three times before she makes a decision whether to buy it or not. I feel about nine years old – and I was buying my own clothes already when I was nine.”

Danny clearly thinks it's an exaggeration, smiles, “Really?”

Stiles waves his head dismissively – he shouldn't have mentioned it at all – but explains, anyway. “It's when my mom got sick. Dad always just let me get what I wanted.” And to dispel the depression he's summoned, he goes on straight into, “I don't know if I can afford cubbing, Danny.”

Danny digs up his phone. “Please. You only need the cover charge. Give me your number – and we need to do something with your hair. Come over around nine tomorrow night?”

So that happens, too.

*

Stiles starts going out with Danny on Fridays, and sometimes Saturdays. He doesn't find it quite as fulfilling as Danny does, but a stroke of luck has it so the bouncer working the weekends is one of the deputies at the station. He doesn't want his moonlighting to be a common knowledge – obvious from the way he freaks out at the sight of Stiles the first night out – and so they make a deal.

So yeah. Stiles and Danny don't even have to bother with fake IDs. It's a great deal, the entrance fee isn't as much of a pittance as Danny has made it sound, but as a result, Stiles goes out more than he feels like for Danny's sake.

But it's not much of an sacrifice. It's not like he doesn't have fun, and anyway...

It helps think less about the way Derek has turned into an ice stick. Like, he's not even running away and ignoring like he has before - he's there, he's talking, he's looking Stiles in the eye and there's nothing but frigid disregard there. It throbs like an infected wound.

But Derek is still Derek with his brother and sister, and with Talia and even dad. It just makes the longing scrape harsher. Sometimes when they're all together, Stiles doesn't speak up on purpose for as long as he can make it, just so he wouldn't remind Derek of his presence.

*

Danny's still inside, with this new guy from out of town, they're just warming up. Like it sometimes gets, the club just hasn't felt right tonight - the music's just a noise, people just bodies. Derek's away for the week, there's nothing that Friday to stay away from at home, so Stiles walks out of the club hours before he usually does.

The night is cold, but at least he can breathe out here. Hands deep inside the pockets of the brown, faux leather jacket Laura's had him buy, Stiles makes his way home on foot, like a stroll after midnight is a good idea ever. No wolves come out of the preserve to ask after his itinerary, though. Stiles makes it back to the dark house unscathed, if somewhat numb from the cold, keeps quiet as he unlocked the door.

He doesn't mean to do it, has no memory of planning it or thinking about it, but down the hallway where their rooms are, he stops long before he reaches his and Scott's bedroom and enters Derek's instead. It's still messy from when Derek has packed for his trip, it's obvious enough even with just the moonlight coming through the window – Stiles doesn't reach for the light switch at all. He kicks his clothes off quickly and gets inside the covers. It smells like fresh laundry, nothing more, but Stiles knows very well where he's at and how little right he's got to be there. He doesn't need a whiff of Derek's aftershave to remind him.

But Derek isn't due till tomorrow sometime, so he turns to his side, hugs the pillow close and sleeps.

It feels likes it's seconds later when someone's shaking him awake. He's warm, almost content in there, so he shrugs the heavy arm off his shoulder.

“You're really determined to make this as hard as humanly possible, aren't you?”

The room is still dark when Stiles opens his eyes, startled. Why is Derek home already?

He turns carefully to take a look over his shoulder. Derek is kneeling on the edge of the bed on one knee. His face is soft, almost fond and tender for a second, but as soon as he catches Stiles' eye it solidifies into the lately default frosty frown. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat as he props himself up on his elbows to face Derek properly.

“Sorry.” Not that sorry will fix anything. “Allison was over.”

Derek's mouth twists into a sneer. “You're lying. Scott was over at hers tonight, and you were out.”

Of course, Scott and Derek do sometimes talk on the phone. Not often, just when it's the right moment to enable Stiles to humiliate himself the most. Stiles sighs, catches the edge of the wooden headrest with his head. “Ouch.”

“Get out my bed, Stiles,” Derek orders.

Right. Derek's bed, trespassing here. Stiles pulls the covers off, puts his feet to the floor. That seems like enough proof to Derek that Stiles is on his way out, so he goes to the bathroom before Stiles can hurl himself upward. The light comes up from there, and is just as quickly cut off again when the door closes. Okay, so maybe he has a few minutes. Stiles lets himself fall back across the bed, pile of the bedding uncomfortable under his back.

Derek comes back a few minutes later, and Stiles is not even feeling a little bit sleepy by then.

“Get out,” Derek says as soon as he comes back in. Stiles glances over at him, then promptly closes his eyes. It's hard to pretend he's having a normal encounter with Derek when he makes a face like that.

“Yeah. Just. Has something happened?”

“No. Why?”

“You're early,” Stiles points out. Derek was on a week long visit to the twin town to Beacon Hills, where all the school teams competed against the teams of their host school. “Your bus was supposed to come back tomorrow.”

There's a silence on the other side of the room for a minute or so, just some meddling with clothes – Derek's getting ready for a shower or for sleeping or something. Just when Stiles is ready to give up on any sort of answer, Derek says, “We came back early. Jackson didn't want to stay a night longer in that rat-infested hotel so his father sent one of his assistants to pick him up. A few of us came along.”

Danny would have been in that car instead of Derek, probably, if he hasn't hurt his shoulder last week in practice.

“Was the hotel really that bad?”

“I haven't seen any rat dung myself, but it was still pretty horrible.”

There's a short second Stiles feels like he's falling down before he realizes it's just the mattress. It's moved under Derek's weight. He's close like this, looking down at Stiles with a frown, leaning on one hand. Stiles closes his eyes, turns his head to press his nose against Derek's thigh, and waits for Derek to move or push him away.

It doesn't come.

“Why can't I just say I'm sorry?”

“You already did,” Derek rumbles.

“No, I mean – can't I just say sorry so you stop – but no. You're not even mad with me, you're just done.”

Derek lets out a tiny huff. “I wish.”

God. Is this what it feels like when your heart breaks? Or it's Stiles being melodramatic. Either way, it's not a pleasant feeling at all.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm leaving.”

But he can't move for another moment and by then, there's a hand in his hair. Derek says quietly, almost warmly, “You're due for a haircut.”

They stay like that, Derek dragging his fingers over Stiles' scalp and Stiles breathing against Derek's denim covered thigh. Finally, Derek speaks again, “I'm not done. I just really need some distance from you.”

“Am I that bad to be around?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Then why?” Stiles gets up to kneel in the bed, face Derek, offers as honestly, as earnestly as he can, “What if I stop? I'll – I won't put you in that position any more, okay? I won't say any of those things, I swear a won't. I'll keep to myself – I'll keep my hands to myself, I won't touch you.”

Derek groans. “That's not – that sounds terrible, Stiles.”

“Then what do you want? I'll do anything, just. Derek. Please.”

“Okay.” Derek whispers. His voice is shaky, eyes – God, resigned. Not a trace of that coldness. Stiles licks his lips, wondering. Okay, what?

Derek reaches for him, hand falling in the crook of Stiles' neck. It's so warm and heavy and it's all Stiles needs to scoot closer across the bed and into Derek's personal space.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, his eyes on Stiles' mouth now.

It's not what Stiles has meant, he hasn't been asking for permission - but he's got it anyway. It'd be a waste not to take advantage of it. He leans in and slots their mouths together, lets his eyes close immediately on a sigh because this is Derek here, letting Stiles in. His lips are soft, and insistent, sending a warm shiver down Stiles' nerves. They're pressed like that a long moment, just a tiniest slide of mouths and even so, Stiles barely dares to breathe, lest the noise gets Derek to change his mind.

Derek makes this animal-like sound, like a growl, hands moving to wrap around Stiles' waist tightly to drag him in even closer until Stiles is on him, on his lap. Their lips lose the contact in the movement, for a barest of seconds, and when they sink back into each other, Derek's mouth is all furious hotness and insistence.

To hell with caution, and Stiles is turning noisy, fast. His hands are restless with compulsion to learn what every part of Derek feels like underneath them – is his hair soft at all, will he gasp again when he feels fingers tracing his spine, is there a single spot on his body that's not paved in strong, hard muscle. Stiles finds a better leverage on his right knee and pushes until they're horizontal.

“Easy,” Derek says lightly, pulls Stiles' chin up to kiss his throat.

“You go easy, I'm – ah, yeah, I'm fine with this pace.”

“Hmm,” Derek says, does something with his elbow and hips that allows him to flip them over like it's nothing. Their legs are entwined, Derek is heavy and the smug look on his face is just fucking adorable. Hands on his cheeks as if to keep him still, he kisses Stiles again, wet and filthy, and achingly slow. Once he's done erasing all impatience, Derek shifts to sit up, legs cradling Stiles' hips, and grins.

“No,” Stiles tells him – he might sound a little petulant about it, too.

Derek snorts, “No?”

“No. Nope. You – you were supposed to let me blow you now.”

The reaction is immediate and not exactly the one Stiles has been hoping for – Derek doesn't let him up and open his jeans. He goes still, smile slipping a little. “Yeah?”

Stiles swallows, tries to see the expression on Derek's face better in the still dark room. “I've been getting off on nothing but the thought of your dick in my mouth for the last six months, so yeah. Yes. Please.”

Because honesty is always the way to go, right?

It works. Derek does kiss him again first, quick and bruising, but then he slides to the side, allows Stiles to get up. He's hard, tenting his pants, and Stiles starts fumbling with his zipper even as he moves to find a better position.

“Three months,” Derek says, a little breathlessly as he watches Stiles hands unclasp the button.

“Huh?”

“It's been less than three months since you've moved in.”

“Well, yeah, but I've wanted to do this ever since that time Coach sent me to the locker room to fetch your captain after a game, and you came out of the shower dripping wet. So, six months. Or so.”

Derek shifts in bed, as if to take a better look at him, but Stiles won't be distracted from this. He pulls Derek's jeans lower, over his stunning hips.

“I remember that,” Derek says.

“Er, no you don't. I was on the other side of the room and your captain turned me out in less than ten seconds.”

“Yeah, after you asked him if he'd consider having the team make one of those nude calendars for a charity.”

Stiles snorts, “The charity being my sad horny existence.” He glances up from where he's finally got Derek's underwear low enough to get to his cock. “So you do remember.”

Derek rolls his eyes like he thinks it's idiotic to even think he wouldn't. “Of course I do. And I remember the way you were looking at me, too – I wanted nothing better than to drag you back to the shower stall with me by the hair, render you blind and speechless.”

Stiles leans his forehead against Derek's naked hip, inhales harshly. “Fuck. Really?”

Derek drags his fingers through his hair, tags on it lightly. “It's only become more difficult with time to resist that impulse.”

“Hell am I glad I've skipped going to Harley's tonight,” Stiles sighs against his thigh.

Derek tags harder, forces him to meet his eyes. “You know no one's buying that, right?”

“Buying what?”

“The 'I'm staying with a friend almost every time I go out' crap. I don't think even your dad is buying it.”

Stiles is blinking up at Derek as he tries to work through that.

“Oookay. So where do you think I stay?” Derek just raises his disbelieving eyebrows. “Do you think I'm, like, seeing someone secretly?” The judging eyebrows go even higher, and Stiles gasps, caught between amusement and shock. “You thought I'm getting picked up by some random strangers, that I follow them back home to have poorly coordinated, intoxicated sex with them, oh my God, no you didn't.”

Derek shifts, frowning in confusion. “What are you doing, then?”

“After dancing for a few hours, mostly with Danny? I go to Harley's apartment, just around the corner, so I wouldn't have to call the taxi – they charge three times as much after midnight.” He doesn't say it's also because he's usually tipsy and a tipsy Stiles is very likely to throw himself at Derek, wanted or not. “It's not a story, Derek.”

Derek's hand slips to his neck, pulls, “Come here.”

“No way.” No way he's moving, he's just fine down there, where he can – and will – lick Derek's dick any moment now.

“I'm not going anywhere, just come up here for a moment.”

Resigned, Stiles sighs, drags himself upward. It's not fair, but he positions himself so he can feel the hard length of Derek's erection against his ass. They both make noise at the contact – Stiles gasps, and Derek hisses on a startled inhale.

Derek swallows visibly, says, “So you haven't been having sex.”

“There was, ah,” Stiles tells him, moving a little so he can settle better, so he'd feel more, “A hand job behind the club, okay. Just the one. And it was terrible, the guy had, like, talons of a hawk for the nails – he scratched me so badly I couldn't walk straight for a week - though, in all honesty, it didn't feel so bad at time. So there was that, and there was that one time – if you remember – when I jizzed my underwear to the feeling of your teeth on my neck and that's the total summary of my sexual experience. Embarrassing as hell, sure, but hardly overwhelming.”

He's wiggling still, delighting in friction, but Derek grits his teeth and puts his huge warm hands on Stiles' hips to try and force him motionless. “Right, okay. Why?”

Dear God, why are they still talking? “Why what?”

“Why haven't you had sex? You're not going to tell me no one's offered, I won't believe that.”

“Of course a few people have offered, but. I don't understand. Why would that mean I'd follow them home like some sort of desperate sex addict?”

Derek groans, uses one hand to pull his cock from under Stiles' ass and the other to move Stiles' underwear aside. Stiles looks down and, Christ. Their erections are touching. Derek's aligned them so they're brushing together and the sight is making tiny sparks of pleasure go off at the base of Stiles' spine.

“Because you were always desperate to have sex.”

Stiles' breath hitches when Derek wraps his hand around both of them, his head swarms and he can barely speak. “Desperate to have sex with you, yeah. This – this is pathetic, I think I'm gonna come if you move your hand, don't move your hand yet, please.”

Derek squeezes his hand, the asshole, and Stiles can't help but buckle forward, into it, and – and he's so close, his vision is swaying.

“So this hasn't been about you losing your virginity,” Derek whispers.

“What?”

Derek's done talking, though. He's probably got some lube somewhere in the room, but is unwilling to stop this long enough to grab it, so he spits on his other hand and coats them both in warm moisture. It's not enough, so Stiles copies exactly what he's done – and it's still a little too dry, but neither one of them cares. Stiles holds himself up so he can watch Derek's flushed, beautiful face and his busy hand. He breathes through his mouth, lets out the noise that builds up in his throat with every jerk of Derek's hips – and comes far too soon. Derek follows right after him like he's been triggered, with a low and long groan, and his eyes on Stiles' face. So that's okay.

Well. Speaking of virginity, does this count as a breech? Stiles thinks it might.

Once he's got his breathing back to order, Stiles eases himself on the mattress, still close enough to feel a hard line of heat and muscle against his skin and looks up at Derek. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

“On?”

“On, number one, why are you determined to put a stop to my oral fixation? And number two, what the hell, Derek?”

Derek looks away. “Do you remember the first day you came over? When you followed me here, into my room?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“You told me you were thinking about going out on the rest stop and blowing the first greasy trucker who asked you to.”

Huh. Who knew it's possible to flush even while still recovering from an orgasm? “Well, I didn't mean it.”

“Yeah, I'm starting to get that.”

Stiles sighs, “I don't mean plenty of crap that comes out of my mouth. That was just – an angsty teenager, feeling a bit invisible. And, I don't know, I think I wanted to see if you'd react. ”

Derek shakes his head, glances back at him sideways. “I thought you knew how much I was attracted to you and figured it'd be easier, and less risky, than to go through the trouble of finding someone else.”

Those words make so little sense, it takes Stiles a few long, confusing moments before he can wrap his head around them. “That, it's. You make me sound like I'm a horrible person, which, okay, maybe I am, but I haven't been about this.” Derek shakes his head again, presses a soft, apologetic kiss on the side of his mouth. “And I thought you're maybe a little attracted to me. A little. Enough to react sometimes, but not enough to do anything about it.”

“A little,” Derek snorts, mouth curving. “When mom told us to show up at your house, I totally hid behind Laura when the door opened and I realized it was you.”

“I guess that explains why I haven't seen you,” Stiles slowly says, floored. Then he narrows his eyes. “Okay, so. You had a terrible crush you thought was unrequited, I had a terrible crush I thought was unrequited. Now that we've stopped being morons, what about the other explanation you own me? I wasn't kidding when I told you I've been getting off on the thought of blowing you for a really long time now.”

“I – okay. In a minute?”

“A whole minute?”

Derek laughs, like he's helpless not to. “Possibly less.” He makes a face at he come drying in the fine dark hair on his lower stomach. “Come on, let's wash this off first.”

He pulls Stiles along, who snickers, “How lucky we're sharing the bathroom – hey, we need to move the laundry basket against Scott's door, just in case.”

Derek gives him an exasperated glance over his shoulder, but Stiles has plans and he won't be deterred.

“Also, you know you can't date random people anymore, right?

“Why would I want to?” Derek asks with a frown, digging through a drawer with his clean hand.

“Ohh, good answer. And we have to do something about the sleeping arrangement in this house. Scott's nose is as crooked as his jaw and I cannot possibly be expected to put up with it for much longer. It's starting to affect my grades.”

Derek shoves fresh underwear into his hands, curls a hand around the back of his neck tightly. “Stiles. Stop talking, just for a little bit.”

Any protest Stiles might have to that gets swallowed in a sure, promising kiss. When Derek pulls away, Stiles nods with a smile and follows him into the bathroom quietly.

But he still blocks Scott's door before getting into the shower, where Derek is already adjusting the temperature of the water. There's this thing that's not talking that he has to do with his mouth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit meh about this one... but at least it's finished, right?


End file.
